


Going Gray

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aging, Fluff, Gen, Hair, Hair Dyeing, Pranks and Practical Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:01:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3196283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a gray hair!” Dean insists, even though he’s a fucking liar and they both know it. It’s just a lighter brown than the hair around it. Sam raises an eyebrow. “It’s totally a gray hair!” Dean says, anyway. “It’s fuckin’ silver, man.”</p>
<p>“Shut up, blondie,” Sam says. “You’re just jealous.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Gray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/gifts).



“So get this,” Sam says one day, and beckons Dean over.

When Dean gets close enough, Sam holds up a long, light strand of hair pinched between two fingers. He has a big doofy grin like he found the damn golden ticket. Except it’s not a golden ticket; it’s a silver hair. Which is damn near about the same thing, when it comes to hunters.

It’s the kind of thing a lot of hunters don’t need to worry about, and it’s definitely the kind of thing Sam never thought he would have to worry about. Hell, he almost didn’t, multiple times now. He was twenty-two the first time he died. It’s thanks to Dean and Cas he even gets to worry about it at all. It’s great, he thinks, a big “fuck you” to life, a symbol that announces to the world: _Look at all the shit life threw at me and I still managed to survive long enough for my hair to start going gray. Hah._

“Dude,” Dean says.

“I _know_! Check this out,” Sam says, and fans out his hair so the light catches the silver strands that have started appearing, mostly underneath, mostly still hidden, but definitely still there.

“You gonna start dyeing it?” Dean asks, because it seems like the sort of thing a normal person would ask in this scenario. Stupid, though, because Dean already knows the answer.

“Hell no,” Sam says, grinning.

The incident kicks off a competition of sorts, Sam eagerly showing off every new strand of gray while Dean spends every morning running fingers through his own hair desperately. He glares at it, willing it to change color, swearing at it like it’s personally trying to antagonize him by remaining completely, stubbornly brown.

“This is a gray hair!” Dean insists, even though he’s a fucking liar and they both know it. It’s just a lighter brown than the hair around it. Sam raises an eyebrow. “It’s totally a gray hair!” Dean says, anyway. “It’s fuckin’ silver, man.”

“Shut up, blondie,” Sam says. “You’re just jealous.”

Dean huffs indignantly. “Okay, first of all. My hair isn’t _blonde_ , it’s freaking chestnut. And second, this is so goddamn unfair, I’ve got four years on you, I’m supposed to be the one going gray first.”

“You’re so full of shit, Dean,” Sam says, not unkindly. “ _My_ hair is chestnut. And distinguished silver. _Yours_ is dishwater blonde. And what can I say. Life’s not fair.”

Dean takes that a little too much to heart, because he totally sabotages Sam by putting chestnut hair dye (“Fucking chestnut,” he had grumbled while swiping his stolen credit card. The cashier had given him a look but declined to comment.) in his conditioner, and when Sam comes out of the shower scowling, Dean parrots, “What can I say? Life’s not fair.”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam says. “First of all, don’t think I didn’t see the box in the trash. _Chestnut_. And second, you have no goddamn clue how hair dye works. You can’t just put it in my conditioner. Gray hair is way more tenacious than that. Do some research next time.”

“Do some research next time,” Dean says in his best snobby baby brother voice, but he knows when he’s been beaten.

So he steps up his game. Obviously.

The only flaw in his plan is that Sam is a light sleeper. Like, duh. He’s a hunter.

Sam doesn’t even startle when he wakes up to Dean looming over him in the dark, holding one of those electric hair clippers. Like he was expecting it. Dammit.

“For fucking real, Dean?” Sam says, very calmly. “I have, like, six gray hairs. Were you planning on shaving my whole head?”

“I--what? No. Of course not. No,” Dean says, and then hightails it the hell out of there.

The next day, Sam is minding his own business, reading a book in the library (not researching how to permanently dye gray hair, unlike _some_ people he knows) when there’s a sharp, sudden tug at the back of his head.

“Ow! Fuckin--” and Sam turns around to see Dean standing triumphantly with one of his long gray hairs held gingerly between thumb and index finger. He decides not to get mad, because that would be giving Dean what he wants. So instead, he just reverts back to his bland I’m-reading-please-leave-me-alone face and says, “Well done. That’ll teach those other gray hairs a lesson. Oh, wait.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “That’s not how hair works.”

Dean scowls. “You never know,” he says, lamely.

“Well, the good thing about science is that it’s true whether or not you believe in it.”

“Are you fucking quoting Neil deGrasse Tyson to me?” Dean asks, but Sam just shrugs noncommittally.

Fuck it, Dean thinks. If Sam’s gonna start bringing scientists into this, he’s gonna bring out the big guns, too. He calls Cas.

Cas shows up later that day, because Cas always comes when Dean calls, no matter how flimsy the reason. Not that Dean thinks this is a flimsy reason. He thinks this is a very important reason.

“Notice anything different about Sam?” Dean asks. “You have to look close. _Really_ close.” Cas frowns and leans way in, which isn’t that different from what he usually, does, really, and Dean thinks hah, if Cas, master of inane details, doesn’t see it, it can’t be that dramatic a change.

“Your hair appears to be going gray, Sam,” Cas says, and Dean thinks, _Goddammit, Cas_. “I imagine you’ll look quite good with gray hair. Very distinguished.” And Dean thinks, louder, _GODDAMMIT_.

Sam looks so freaking smug that he doesn’t even have to say anything. The look says it all: _Hear that? Cas thinks I look_ distinguished.

Dean doesn’t say anything, either, just stomps off to pretend he’s not going to spend the next half hour glaring daggers at every last strand of his hair in the mirror.

The standoff comes to an end a few weeks later, when it’s died down just enough that they can both pretend it’s not really a standoff even though it totally is, in Dean’s humble opinion.

“Ha-HAH!” Sam hears from way across the bunker, and he rolls his eyes, because he just _knows_. And sure enough, Dean is standing there ten seconds later, shoving his head right up in Sam’s face.

“Look at this shit,” Dean is saying. “Look at it. Gray. GRAY.”

“Jesus, Dean, all right,” Sam says, but he can’t help grinning. Dean catches his eye, and just like that, they’re both laughing, the mostly-affectionate-tension-but-still-tension dissolving in an instant, turning into genuine delight at the fact they’re both still here, both alive and well and going gray. Just like Bobby, they finally have this hunter’s badge of honor, that they’re still actively working cases and still breathing and managing to grow old in the process. Both of them Bobby’s peers, not his proteges. Fucking _finally_.

When he finally catches his breath, Sam settles into a completely serious face and says, totally convincingly, “So, time to look into AARP memberships?”

“Sure thing, grandpa,” Dean says. “Let me know when they come in. I’ll be sitting on the porch with my shotgun.”

Sam presents Dean with his membership card a few weeks later. “Turns out their scrutiny during the application process is a little lax,” he says, by way of explanation. Dean is pretty sure he’s never laughed so hard in his life.

“Call Cas,” Dean says. “Time to celebrate.”

Bingo night, as it turns out, is fantastic.

 


End file.
